


On the Rocks

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, bartender!Dean, panty!kink, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel doesn't usually spend his nights in bars like this. He likes a good stiff drink, but he doesn't see the point in spending $12 for it when he can buy a bottle of whiskey for $20. But apparently this place mixes some pretty fantastic stuff, and the green eyed bartender who's pouring it doesn't exactly sour the deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Rocks

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a short PWP. It got long, and feels got in there. Ooops. I apologise for nothing. Not a single, goddamned thing.

Four drinks in, the alcohol still slides down Castiel’s throat the exact same way it did with the first sip. He’s drinking an Old Fashioned, swirling the glass to watch the maraschino cherry bump against the shrinking ice cubes, and trying to pretend he’s paying attention to anything other than the fucking delicious bartender at the other end of the counter. This is the kind of place that likely refers to him as a Mixologist, officially, but it’s all the same to Castiel. Bartender, Mixologist, whatever you want to call him, the man behind the counter with the smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the winning smile makes a killer Old Fashioned.

Castiel doesn’t usually come to places this trendy. There’s something about the crowd that frequents the hot nightspots that makes his skin crawl. They’re so tawdry and fake, these people. Plastic. Nothing about them is authentic, and Castiel can’t stand the inorganic way they carry themselves. He supposes that’s unfairly judgemental; these people have the right to live whatever way makes them happy. He just doesn’t have to like it. But still, he’d read a review in a magazine while waiting for a haircut last week that said this place distills their own bitters, and that seemed just too good to pass up regardless of the crowd.

The drink menu here is daunting. There are four pages of whiskey cocktails alone, and countless more of vodka beverages and mixed drinks and all manner of frivolity. There’s nothing about those that Castiel finds appealing. He likes simpler things. Top shelf whiskey and cocktail bitters. A sugar cube. Maraschino garnish. No citrus; a drink only needs one garnish. Three is excessive.

When he first walked in the crowd was thin, and it was easy to find himself a vacant seat at the bar. Castiel rolled up the sleeves of his dark dress shirt and perused the menu for several minutes before the stunning bartender approached. “You look a little lost,” he said, plucking the manuscript-sized catalog of drinks out of Castiel’s hands. “What do you usually like?”

“I heard you guys make your own bitters. Honestly that’s what I’m here for.”

“Ah,” the bartender replied. “Say no more.” He turned away without further acknowledgement, fetched a bottle, and began to assemble a drink on the counter in front of Castiel. His hands moved with fluid precision as he selected ingredients, dropping a sugar cube into the glass and soaking it in a healthy dose of the bitters that Castiel came here to try. When the cube absorbed everything and took on a deep brown hue, the bartender filled the glass with ice and topped it with a double measure of whiskey. Finally, his deft fingers selected a maraschino cherry from his assortment of garnishes and tossed it into the glass, followed quickly by a half slice of lemon and an orange twist on the lip of the glass. He slid it across to Castiel with a smile. “Classic old fashioned. Best you’ll ever have.”

A clever retort died on Castiel’s tongue as he sipped the beverage. Flavour exploded in his mouth; the rich, earthy tones of the whiskey, sharp and intense as it burned down his throat. Sweetness just short of cloying, the sugar-cube infusing every drop of liquid in the glass. And the bitters, strong tones of orange and lemon, a subtle note of peach, and something herbal he couldn’t put his finger on right away but managed to heighten the entire experience into something almost religious.

“Thyme,” The bartender offered in response to the contemplative look on Castiel’s face. “What you’re tasting is my own recipe. You like?” Castiel nodded.

“It’s unique. Unexpected. Definitely good.” Castiel swirled the glass before taking another sip, pretending not to notice the way the bartender’s face lit up at the subtle praise. The man turned back to his work, and Castiel back to his drink, and that was that. Only it wasn’t. Because each time Castiel’s drink ran dry, the last chips of ice clinking in the glass as he set it down, the beautiful man in the tight fitting black tee-shirt came back over to ask if he wanted another, and each time he lingered just a little bit longer. Castiel is nearly finished the fourth drink of the evening now, and he’s torn between draining it quickly so he has an excuse to drown in those green eyes again, and savouring the delicious mix of sweet and bitter that swirls in the short glass in front of him. Though he may appear focused on his drink, Castiel is constantly aware of the presence of the bartender. He’s barely taken his eyes off the man since he got here. It stops just short of leering – Castiel is dignified enough to avoid that, but he’d be surprised if the man hadn’t noticed by now. And he feels a little bad about that, he really does. Those in the service industry get so much unwanted attention. Castiel isn’t even certain the man’s been flirting. He could just be friendly. He could just be angling for tips. And Castiel really did just come here to have a drink or two, a goal he met and surpassed at least an hour ago. He should probably go home.

He’s just about to pull his wallet out and settle his tab when the object of his attentions approaches Castiel’s end of the bar again and leans down to grab something out of the cooler along the back wall. It’s a completely normal motion, something that shouldn’t really catch Castiel’s eye, only when he bends over the waistband of his jeans slips just so, and his tee-shirt rides up his waistline ever so slightly, and Castiel can see just a scant sliver of what is unmistakeably black lace peeking out above the top of the bartender’s jeans. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat as he envisions what the rest of the garment might look like, visions springing to mind unbidden of the green eyed man spread out on his bed in nothing but a scrap of black lace, writhing with pleasure, a soft pink flush creeping from his cheeks down to his chest as Castiel mouths at his hard cock through the flimsy fabric of his lacy little surprise. He barely supresses a groan, biting down on his lip to catch the noises that would give him away, and he closes his eyes for just a moment to calm himself.

When Castiel opens his eyes, the bartender is standing in front of him, a bottle of local craft brewed beer in his hands and a knowing smirk on his face. “Like what you see?” he teases, and Castiel could crawl under the bar and die right now quite honestly, his embarrassment is so intense, but then the bartender leans in nice and close, so close that his breath tickles the shell of Castiel’s ear, and he whispers words so soft Castiel is barely certain he hears them.

“’Cause I sure as fuck like what I see.”

Castiel is left gaping as the bartender walks away to give the beer to a beardy hipster at the other end of the counter. Castiel sips the last of his drink, a few undissolved granules of sugar clinging to his lips as he swallows the whiskey, savouring the burn. He licks the sugar from his lips and thinks about what the bartender’s mouth might taste like. There’s heat rising in his cheeks, and Castiel can’t tell whether it’s arousal or alcohol, or a mix of the two. He’s had enough to drink, that much is decided. He’d love to wave that gorgeous man over and order another drink, just to see if he can entice him into further conversation, but the buzz Castiel has going on right now is just about perfect. Anything more will take him over the crest and he’ll regret it in the morning. So he sets his glass down on the counter and runs a finger along the lip of the glass, trying to decide what to do next.

The decision is taken away from him when the bartender walks past again. He doesn’t stop to talk, doesn’t even actually look at Castiel. Instead, he sets down a bottle of cold water and a slip of paper which Castiel assumes is his tab. Excellent. He’s been cut off. Any chance he had with the gorgeous stranger must be ruined by now. Fantastic. Castiel flips the paper over to see what the damage is, and yes, it’s his tab, but it’s rung in at zero and there’s a note scrawled at the bottom in hasty handwriting. The letters are so firmly pressed into the paper that it’s almost torn in places.

_If you’re any good at taking a hint, you’re looking for an opportunity to ask when I get off. My shift ends at eleven, so hopefully the answer is “not long after that.” Stick around?_

Castiel reads the note three times to make sure his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him, then glances at his watch. The bartender’s shift is over in ten minutes, and it’s not even a question of whether he’s going to stick around. It’s a question of whether he’s going to survive that long or whether his imagination is going to run so far away with him in the intervening space that he’s incapable of even offering up his name when the time comes. He’s not sure which is more likely at this point.

The time passes maddeningly slowly. Castiel is sure his watch has stopped; it must have. There have never been ten consecutive minutes in the history of mankind that have passed this slowly. He’s operating outside the space-time continuum, on a wavelength previously imperceptible to the human mind. That’s the only explanation for how long it takes for 10:50 pm to become 11:00pm. By the time the bartender is off shift, coming out from behind the counter with a leather jacket over the tight black tee-shirt he’s been wearing all night, Castiel has nearly convinced himself that time itself has stopped moving forward, so he’s startled by the solid warmth of the man’s hand landing on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, his voice as smooth as the whiskey he’s been pouring all night. “I’m Dean.” Castiel turns towards the sound of the voice and finds himself captivated by the very presence of the man before him. Dean is now standing in his personal space with his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, hovering ever so close, and all Castiel can think of is whether the black lace under his jeans is a thong or not. He’s desperate to find out and his brain is just functional enough to point out that the best way to get there is to offer up his name in reply.

“Castiel,” he states plainly, standing up. “It’s a pleasure.”

Dean laughs warmly. “I hope so.” Castiel stops just short of rolling his eyes at the line but quite honestly at this point he’d forgive just about anything. “Not to be cliché,” Dean continues, “But uh…your place or mine?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much the most cliché thing you could possibly have said. My place is about a ten minute cab ride away. Where are you?”

“Walking distance,” Dean supplies. “Guess that settles it.” He gestures towards the door before waving farewell to someone behind the bar. Castiel follows him outside, glad that it hasn’t begun to rain while he’s been in the bar as he didn’t think to bring a coat. His plans for the evening didn’t involve a walk of any distance longer than the door of the bar to the curb, and from another curb to his front door.

The walk takes less time than the cab ride would have. Dean lives only a few blocks away in a third story walk-up he describes as rustic. They talk a little on the way; just the basics. When asked about his job Castiel just says that he writes and leaves it at that. If this is to be a one-time thing then he doesn’t need to go forming attachments. That’s enough detail. Still, the walk is sobering, and by the time Dean is fitting his key to the lock on the building’s front door the haze of the whiskey has faded to a distant memory. He follows Dean inside the apartment, noting to himself that “rustic” is somewhat of a generous descriptor. Not that it matters of course. He’s not here for the ambiance. He’s here for the talent.

“So,” Dean says, coming up behind Castiel to rest hands on his hips. He presses lips to the skin behind Castiel’s ear and Castiel suppresses a shudder. “You have me at somewhat of a disadvantage.”

“Hmm?” Castiel hums the inquisition softly, pushing his hands back to trail up the front of Dean’s thighs. The dark denim clings close to his muscular legs.

Dean’s grip is firm as he nudges Castiel’s hips, urging him to turn around with persistent pressure. When they’re face to face, only inches apart he speaks again, his voice low and raw. “You know what I’m wearing under these jeans. I have no idea what you’re hiding under there. That doesn’t seem quite fair.” His hands play at the buttons of Castiel’s vest as he speaks. “What do you suppose we do about that?”

“Forward, aren’t we? You haven’t even kissed me yet and you want to get into my pants? One thing at a time.” And Castiel gets exactly what he expected in reply, the pressure of lips against his own, Dean’s tongue sliding out to lick into his mouth. Dean tastes sweet and spicy, reminiscent of the flavour he mixed for Castiel in the bar, and he drinks it in with the same thirst. For a moment it’s all they do, stand enrapt with each other’s mouths. Castiel is the one to break the spell. He rolls his shoulders, shrugging his vest to the floor and then pushes his hands under the hem of Dean’s shirt. The warmth that radiates off his body flows into Castiel and sets his blood afire, filling his mind with images and ideas of what he can do with all that skin, all that lovely skin. He wants his hands on all of it, every inch, wants to learn it with his fingertips and map it out with his tongue. He moans softly, full of enthusiasm at the very thought.

Dean pulls his mouth away and rests his hand on the side of Castiel’s face, tilting his chin up and running a thumb along his lower lip. “Formalities out of the way, can we get naked now? Because I really, and I mean _really_ want you to fuck me.”

Castiel replies not with words but with hands. He pushes the leather jacket off of Dean’s shoulders roughly, letting it fall to the floor. He reaches for the hem of Dean’s shirt, intent on tugging it off and exposing the hard muscle he can see outlined through the thin fabric, only when his fingers grip the shirt and start to draw it up, they’re stopped by Dean’s arms refusing to move upward. He’s too focused on the buttons of Castiel’s shirt. They pop open as quickly as Dean can make them without tearing them from the fabric. He fumbles with the knot on Castiel’s tie, and finally Castiel has to intervene and complete the task. He shrugs out of the shirt and then attacks Dean’s clothes again, tangling the man’s arms in the fabric in his enthusiasm to strip it away. As soon as Dean’s free again his hands fly to Castiel’s jeans and he leans in to kiss with ferocity, stealing away Castiel’s breath with the intensity of it.

It takes a moment for Castiel to regain his composure, but when he does he finds himself being crowded by Dean’s body, directed backwards because he has no choice but to move under the imposition of Dean’s hands, Dean’s hips. They make it as far as the bedroom with mouths locked together, hands groping greedily at any inch of skin they can latch on to. Dean makes no effort to hide his enthusiasm as he drops his hands to work frantically at Castiel’s pants, opening the fly forcefully and shoving the garment down around his thighs roughly. Castiel groans as Dean’s hand grasps at his cock through the thin fabric of his boxer-briefs, his eyes fluttering as he rocks into the touch. Dean kisses him again, softer this time, and he lets himself swim in the heady haze of lust for a moment before deciding it’s time to take control of the situation.

Dean is startled to say the least when Castiel spins them around and pushes Dean backwards, launching him on to the bed. He bounces, staring back at Castiel with wide eyes and his mouth open to protest, but Castiel simply steps out of his pants, leaving shoes and socks behind with them, and crawls on to the bed after him. He doesn’t even make eye contact as he slowly opens Dean’s dark jeans. It’s like opening a present; only he already has a pretty good idea what hides underneath. He just hasn’t seen it up close before. Castiel purposely doesn’t look up while he pulls Dean’s jeans down his thighs, nor when he pulls them off of Dean’s legs and tosses them off into whatever corner of the room will claim them. It’s not until he’s situated between Dean’s spread legs, kneeling in nothing but his shorts, that he let himself take in the sight of this gorgeous man splayed out before him. And lord have mercy, it’s a sight to see. The black lace does next to nothing to disguise the size of his cock, now fully erect and straining the confines of the tiny garment. The head pokes out just above the waistband, little lacy frills against flushed, red skin glistening with precome. Unable to resist, he leans down to mouth at Dean through the fabric, his breath hot against lace and skin alike.

Teasing slowly, with one finger hooked under the ruffled edge of the panties, Castiel shifts the fabric and pulls Dean’s cock free of its confines. It’s long and thick, and it makes Castiel’s mouth water. When he wraps his lips around the head and lets the tip of his tongue taste the precome, Dean groans, a raw, wrecked sound, and rests a hand on the back of Castiel’s head. There’s no pressure behind it, just encouragement, and his voice is low when he speaks.

“Jesus Christ, Cas, your mouth…” He cuts off the sentence as Castiel slides his lips down as far as he can, taking Dean into the back of his throat and covering anything he can’t fit in his mouth with a gentle caress of his hand. Dean breathes in shallow gasps while Castiel drags his mouth back up to the tip of his cock, and he pulls away to regard Dean quizzically.

“Did you just give me a nickname?”

“Uh, yeah I guess. Is that a problem?” Castiel shrugs, his bare shoulders moving sinuously.

“Just not used to my name being shortened. I like it.” He sinks back down onto Dean’s dick without another word, licking and sucking with increasing fervor as he goes, and if the sounds spilling from Dean’s parted lips are any indication, the enthusiasm is appreciated. Castiel slides up and down with ease, hand chasing mouth, stroking and teasing Dean’s slick shaft as he goes. It’s heavy on his tongue, hot and hard, and it tastes even better than the handcrafted beverages he nursed throughout the evening. Castiel feels a heady rush that he’s sure doesn’t come from the booze; he’s drunk on lust, hungry and wanting, his actions fueled solely by the intensity of his desire.

He finally decides that Dean has had enough teasing, pulling off his cock with a wet noise and climbing slowly up his reclined body, peppering his chest with kisses as he goes. When he finally reaches Dean’s face he sinks into a deep and filthy kiss, his tongue darting out to taste every last bit of the man’s delicious mouth. He lets Dean roll him over as they kiss, lets Dean shove his boxer-briefs down until they tangle around his calves and he can kick them off awkwardly, but when Dean starts to sink down, trailing his tongue along Castiel’s chest, Castiel stops him with firm hands.

“If I get your mouth on me, there’s no way I’m going to last. And I’m not skipping the main course in favour of appetizers.” Dean laughs, a gruff noise low in his throat, and climbs back up to kiss Castiel again. His lips are soft and wet, his tongue persistent. He moves with skill, every touch captivating all of Castiel’s attention so much that he barely notices that Dean’s free hand is reaching into the nightstand. He retrieves lube and a condom without breaking their lips apart but once supplies are in hand he kisses his way across Castiel’s jaw to whisper in his hear.

“So, Cas,” he rumbles, “How do you wanna do this?” Castiel ponders for a moment with the warmth of Dean’s breath on his neck, but the decision is made quickly.

“I want you on your hands and knees,” Castiel says in what can most accurately be described as a growl. “And I want you to keep these on,” he supplies, snapping the waistband of Dean’s lacy black thong. Dean complies quickly, positioning himself on sturdy thighs and muscular arms. He’s strong and toned, a perfect specimen, and Castiel can’t help running his hands over the expanse of skin laid out before him with awe and reverence. He’s perfect; a work of art. Castiel pushes the thin line of Dean’s thong out of the way, exposing the pink pucker of his entrance, and Dean sucks in a startled breath when Castiel runs a finger over it. He circles the rim gently, teasing, until he feels Dean begin to relax, and then presses just the tip of one slick finger past the resistance.

Castiel is methodical. His fingers move at a slow, measured pace, drawing out the process with so much patience that Dean almost mistakes the focus for disinterest. But when he slides a third finger in and begins twisting with each stroke Dean gasps and arches into it, and Castiel is the one who moans with desire. There’s no mistaking it after that.

“Fuck Cas, I’m ready,” Dean groans. He’s probably not, but he doesn’t care and neither does Castiel. He rolls on the condom and lines himself up and when he sinks in, pushing the length of his cock into Dean’s incredible heat, it’s a thousand times better than he could have hoped. It’s such a glorious sight. Castiel’s thumbs spread the perfect curves of Dean’s ass and the thin strip of Dean’s panties cuts a line off to one side where Castiel holds it out of the way. It’d be easier to have removed them, probably, but they’re just so pretty and Dean obviously likes wearing them. And right now, whatever Dean likes, Castiel likes.

“You gonna move, or…?” Dean asks, peering back over his shoulder to take in the awestruck look on Cas’s face. There’s something beautiful in the way he’s lost himself in the moment, like there’s nothing in the world for him beyond the sensations of Dean’s body, and even as he shakes himself out of it some measure of the feeling remains, like all of reality outside this bedroom has ceased to exist.

“Are you always this mouthy?” Castiel shoots back, running the palms of his hands across the warm skin of Dean’s nearly bare ass, and as Dean begins what is sure to be a witty rejoinder, Castiel draws his hips back and snaps forward. Whatever Dean was about to say doesn’t come out as words but rather as a startled and pleasured grunt, and he pushes back against the movement of Castiel’s body to take him deeper. Dean doesn’t bother trying to reform the words he meant to speak, and Castiel doesn’t ask any more questions.

The sharp snap of his hips becomes rhythmic, almost unconscious as he sinks in and absorbs all the pleasure Dean’s body can give him. This beautiful bartender clawing for purchase on the bed beneath him, it’s far more than Castiel set out to find when he walked into the bar this evening, but it’s unlikely that either of them can find anything to complain about in the unexpected turn of events. Dean gasps and groans, vocal though he’s not actually saying anything, and Castiel makes little mental notes about what he’s doing when Dean gives up the best sounds, and then he does those things again and again.

Castiel is fully aware that he’s not going to last long. Dean’s body is so responsive, quivering and tensing around him, and as much as he doesn’t really want it to be over there’s no denying how close his release is looming. So he releases his hold on Dean’s hip with one hand and slides it past the elastic of his strained lace panties to wrap nimble fingers around his leaking cock. The sound Dean gives up then might be his favourite yet, a wrecked and desperate whine that has Castiel fucking into him even harder the second his ears take it in. He pants and he groans, taking his pleasure from the willing body beneath him, hoping silently that he can bring Dean over the edge before his own orgasm sweeps him away with the tides and renders his limbs leaden and lazy.

He gets his wish. Castiel’s hand works quickly behind the thin screen of lace, tugging and squeezing at Dean’s cock and before he knows it, Dean moans low in his throat and the wet warmth of his come coats Castiel’s hand and Dean’s panties alike. His body tenses, going rigid with the intensity of his pleasure, and that’s the thing that pulls Castiel down in the end. His vision blurs and he makes a sound, a filthy sound, working his hips in short, jerky motions as an evening of flirting culminates in a glorious moment of ecstasy. Castiel’s hips collide with Dean’s rear a few more times before he loses the will to move, and they collapse to the bed with limbs entwined, chests heaving in near-unison as the world swims around them like watercolours.

Castiel revels in the moment. It’ll be over soon, he knows. Nights like this don’t result in a morning after; not usually. Dean will subtly hint that he should leave, or Castiel will lose his nerve and go without being asked, and they’ll pass out of each other’s lives like nothing ever happened. That’s the way of these things. They might as well not have exchanged names. He barely even realizes that he’s doing it, but Castiel’s limbs start to draw away from Dean’s warmth, his hands stop touching the bounty of skin beside him, and a chasm starts to form on the bed between them. And of course, this is the moment that Dean choses to speak.

“You know, I don’t usually do this.” And Castiel knows what’s coming next. A statement about how it’s been fun but he doesn’t want strings, or an outright dismissal, or something of that nature. Can’t even let the illusion last until morning. Castiel starts to move, aims to swing his legs off the side of the bed and gather his things, but a hand reaches out to grab his wrist. “The one-night thing, I mean. So like, you should stay, and then it’s not just for one night.” There’s a hitch in his voice, just a tiny hint of uncertainty, and Castiel tries so very very hard not to let his own voice mirror the tone.

“OK,” he says, like there was never any doubt. “I’ll stay.” Like it’s not what he was hoping for in the first place. In the morning, Dean might still send him away, but the arms that circle his waist make it hard to worry about that.

**Author's Note:**

> Recipe for an old fashioned, not exactly the way they'd phrase it in a cocktail book but accurate nonetheless
> 
> Toss a sugar cube in a rocks glass, or if you're a lazy fucker like me and you don't have any cubes just toss in like half a teaspoon of sugar.  
> Throw a couple dashes of Angostura bitters in there. This sounds like some rare and fancy ingredient but it's basically just fruit that's been infused into booze. Think of it as the citrus version of vanilla extract. You can buy it at a grocery store. It doesn't even count as alcohol.  
> When the sugar has soaked up all the bittery goodness, fill the glass half way with ice.  
> pour in a double shot of whiskey. Or, if you're lazy, again like I am, just kinda eye-measure it until it looks good. I"m heavy handed.  
> Swirl it around a bit. Get all that sugar mixed in.  
> Garnish with a maraschino cherry and a slice of lemon, and stick an orange wedge on the side of the glass. Tradition states that you serve it with a muddler, which is a little stick that servers almost no purpose except to poke you in the face when you drink it.  
> I skip the orange, the lemon and the muddler, and add an extra cherry. Make no mistake about it, the addition of sugar and a cherry do not make this a weak ass "girly" drink. For starters, girls are hardcore and a girly drink will fuck you up, it'll just be pink while it does it. And secondly, why are you gendering drinks in the first place, they're made of alcohol, they don't have a gender. Just drink what you like. This drink is excellent. Enjoy.


End file.
